


The Reason.

by smartforholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Hostage Situations, Hurt Greg Lestrade, Hurt Mycroft Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: After a hostage situation goes terribly wrong, Mycroft realizes Gregory is his reason for everything.Based on Mystrade Monday prompt #14 “We'll figure this out”.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 6
Kudos: 89





	The Reason.

**Author's Note:**

> Went far too long for this one, and the opposite of last week, I couldn't seem to stop.
> 
> Mind the tags, if you're triggered by homophobic language or swearing, I recommend you not read this story.

Consciousness came to Gregory slowly, his senses were still at half their percentage when his eyes finally opened. The DCI was lying on the concrete floor, and his head ached miserably. It took him a couple of seconds to acknowledge somebody was calling his name with desperate, and soon his eyes met the concerned look of John, his mouth moved rapidly, but no words could be heard by the older man.

“Greg!” Watson exasperated, battling with the tie on his hands that were bound behind him. “Come on, mate, wake up!”

His shouting is enough for the named to fresh up and is more aware, the sound of something dripping beside him and difficult breathing embellishing the aura of the darkroom.

“Wha– What happened?” Lestrade mumbled, his eyes still not focusing appropriately but his hearing high alert. “Where’re we?”

“We’re hostages, Graham, can't you tell?” Came the familiar voice of Sherlock, whom just like John, had his hands tied behind his back. “Alexander Kennedy, remember?”

“There’s... Something is dripping, what is it?” Gregory asked, peeking around making an effort to find it, but the darkness complicated his search. “Boys, you hear it, right?”

Sherlock sighed, leaning back against the wall. “That may be my brother's blood,” His voice came out natural, with no trace of worry or suspicion. “Can’t you? Oh, right you can't. He was shot right after Kennedy knocked you out.”

Greg's heart immediately started to beat twice its speed, the fear of Mycroft being in mortal danger made him ignore for an abrupt moment about the possible head injury he was undergoing.

Even in the dark, Sherlock deduced Lestrade's beliefs. “Worry not, Detective Inspector, the bullet is located in Mycroft's right shoulder, which _obviously_ means there's no mortal damage caused except the fact that if he doesn't receive the proper treatment in the next hour or so he will most likely—”

“Enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, waking up from his shock state. “Playing medic is not your area but Doctor Watson's and he has remained respectfully quiet.”

“Excuse me? I am merely trying to inform your boyf—” Sherlock's argument was stopped by the lights being turned on, Alexander Kennedy emerging from the entrance of the room.

“Well, who's awake now? Our dear Detective Inspector,” The blonde-haired criminal chuckled, a handgun hanging from his right hand. “Ready for the final show?”

“What the hell do you want?” John inquired, fury on his blue eyes.

Alexander's smile got bigger and, as he stared with heart eyes at his gun, revealed. “I’m going to murder you two while these other two look. I want to see them agonize, I want to see London burn at your death.”

Mycroft's eyes pin on Alexander, abrupt and unfamiliar anguish rising his throat. “Oh God, no,” He looked around desperately, discovering Gregory eyeing him with a delicate smile.

The affection and protectiveness his eyes told made Mycroft repose shortly afterward. “We’ll figure this out, okay?” Gregory's lips mumbled, but no sound came out from his mouth, which was sufficient for the auburn.

But as Greg returned his gaze towards their captor, Mycroft could hear the man snickered, catching the attention of Alexander.

“What are you laughing about, imbecile?” Alexander spat, walking towards Greg. “Do I have something on my face or what?”

Lestrade giggled and stared up to the criminal's face. “You seriously think you're doing something by killing these 2 faggots?” Kennedy looked at him wide-eyed, startled, and taken aback by the response from the DCI.

“Killing them will bring me my desired fame, Detective, there's no point in you trying to stop me,”

“Taller dyke here was dead already, old news mate,” Greg replied, the enterprising grin never departing his face. “One week and people will forget he even existed, try harder next time.”

Alexander's blood boiled at the answers Lestrade was providing, never foreseeing one of them had the bravery to spat back. “What about the posh boy? He looks rather important to me.”

Gregory's burst of laughter made everybody freeze, including Mycroft, the elder Holmes looking at Gregory with distress and panic.

“Y’ mean _batty_ boy? Don't make me laugh, lad! This chap’s greatest skill is just being a weirdo and the older brother of that freak over there,” Lestrade's hands passed through his hair slicked with blood; with a weak sigh he resumed. “You want attention? Kill me, _I'm_ the _golden_ Detective Chief Inspector from New Scotland Yard, killing _me_ has the potential of massive riotings against the Force; a revelation, don't you want that?”

Kennedy's eyes analyzed Gregory's, attempting to find any lie or trick on them, finding nothing but pure determination and certainty. But Alexander Kennedy was anything but a follower of orders.

“You will not tell me what to do, smartass, this is just you trying to play the hero.”

And then, everything turned to chaos.

As Alexander turned around, Gregory took advantage of his distracted mind and tackled him, sending both of them to the floor, the DCI standing on top of him. Alexander was faster, which eased his way on top of Greg, punching him and kicking his abdomen repeatedly.

Both Holmes brothers and John Watson could only stare at them worriedly, not knowing what may happen.

A couple of moments later, Greg laid barely conscious on the floor, his nose bleeding profusely and bruising forming rapidly on any visible skin. Alexander smiled down at him, kicking him for the last time.

“Now, who's going first, queens?” Alexander whispered darkly, a sadic smile shaping his lips.

Sherlock dragged himself in front of John, trying to shield him from being the first victim of the night, Watson just claiming for mercy. Mycroft sobbed trying to look away from the sight of his brother being murdered in front of his very own eyes.

Suddenly, a grunt echoed in the room, and all attention was heaved on Gregory running towards Alexander, determined to stop him once more.

Then, 2 shots boomed in the room.

Mycroft witnessed how Greg's factions went from determination to pure agony as he fell backward, hands grasping the two bullet wounds on his chest.

An ear-piercing scream alarmed Sherlock, making him look at his older brother collapsing emotionally, tears falling like a river from his tightly closed eyes, heartbreaking sobs turning out from deep down his chest.

Before anyone of them had the chance to react or _just do something_ , another shot was fired. This time, finding its mark on Alexander's head, blood, and brain matter splashing on the wall between Mycroft and Sherlock. Soon enough, Sally Donovan and several officers stormed inside, all of them but Donovan rushing to the shocked trio in the back.

As Sherlock and John were being untied, the younger Holmes rushed to the elder, holding him in place as he tried to go to where Gregory's cadaver laid. But Mycroft was too stunned to realize there was no actual blood gathering under Lestrade, nor the usual paleness of a lifeless body.

John immediately left them, sprinting to Sally who removed Greg's black jacket and ripped his shirt off, revealing a ballistic vest with the two bullets smashed against it. John's worry now laid on Lestrade's real injuries.

“He was hit with the barrel of a gun before Alexander beat the shit out of him,” Watson said to Sally whilst she cradled Greg's jacket under his head. “Do be careful, I believe he has a rather serious concussion.”

During his medical examination and Sally's call for an ambulance, John could hear Mycroft screaming again, being calmed down by Sherlock.

Mycroft tried with all his strength to get rid of Sherlock's grip, his long legs kicking him away but Sherlock was more fired up and way stronger than him. It came to a moment where all Mycroft could do was break down into heavy sobs, hiding on his little brother’s neck as he wept. A paramedic was stitching up his wound but no pain related to his injury could compare to the ache in his heart.

“He’s dead, Sherlock. Christ, h-he's dead...” Mycroft whimpered and Sherlock's arms brought him impossibly closer, his right hand caressing his hair.

With his cheek lying on top of Mycroft's skull, Sherlock dared to look at Greg's corpse, only to find John and a Medical Crew raising him in a stretcher, hurrying out of the room. John's eyes whirled to him, and his lover delivered one of his unprecedented comforting smiles, walking calmly to his way.

John kneeled beside them, dismissing the paramedic away once he knew the wound was stitched and cleaned up properly. His hand laid on Mycroft's shoulder, feeling him shiver.

“Mycroft? Are you okay?” The elder Holmes laughed bitterly, another round of tears streaming down his pale face.

“I just lost everything, Doctor Watson, how can you even _expect_ me to be?!” John looked down, trying his best to stay calm to explain the situation properly.

Once again, John attempted to touch Mycroft but received a punch in the face as a response. “Mycroft, listen to me, Greg... He's...”

“He is fucking dead, John, that's what he is! **Dead!** ”

It took Sherlock exactly 29 seconds to recognize his brother was suffering a mental breakdown, more blood dripping beside him as the tension in his body shredded the stitches one by one. Sherlock's right hand gripped Mycroft's bicep, bringing him closer, applying pressure on the reopened wound.

“Please, _please,_ just listen to John, brother mine,” Sherlock whispered in the softest time he could manage, his coat being soaked by his brother's tears. “I got you, it's going to be okay.”

After he made sure everything was safe, John got near them, seating next to Lestrade's lover. “Greg is alive, Mycroft. Yes, beat the shit out of but he had his vest on, he will be okay,” Mycroft's eyes almost broke him then and there, tormented by incredulity and grief.

All Mycroft could do was go limp under his brother's shielding arms. The sound of John’s scared voice yelling for an ambulance fading away.

☂

Mycroft awakened to the sound of his little brother's voice and an unfamiliar tone, presumably a Doctor; they discussed his ‘overwhelming’ medical condition, so the elder Holmes opted for maintaining his eyes shut until he was confident the Doctor departed.

Feeling the bed shifting by his hip, Mycroft knew he was caught. “I know you are awake, brother dear,” Sherlock whispered, his hand brushing a falling curl from his forehead. “We have several topics to discuss.”

The auburn's eyes opened eventually, staring at his brother's worried face. Sherlock could only set his hand on top of Mycroft's, stroking the cold skin with his thumb. “It’s about Greg, brother,”

Hands fisted on the white sheets caught the younger Holmes by surprise, setting his other hand on his brother's. “Mycroft, before you do anything stupid allow me to explain the situation.” With the short nos Mycroft gave him, Sherlock sighed deeply and started to talk.

The Consulting Detective explained to Mycroft how Gregory was well aware of the situation and the imminent danger they were being exposed to, so as a precautionary measure he wore the ballistic vest under his grey shirt, foreseeing the investigation going the wrong way.

Mycroft listened speechless to his brother's declarations, froze on his spot, not knowing what to say or do.

Sherlock continued explaining how right before Alexander took them to the warehouse, Greg communicated the situation to Sally Donovan; his boyfriend had it all planned. Finally, Sherlock dropped the news once again to his older brother.

“He’s certainly not dead, brother mine. As I told you, the ballistic vest was undetected by Kennedy since it was under two layers of clothes, he's resting at the moment on a room not far away from here, concussed but with a high chance of recovery.”

His little brother's smile brought him back the desired peace he had been waiting for forever since witnessing Gregory being killed. Realizing his biggest wish was to see Greg, Mycroft started to rip off the IV from his hand.

“I need to see him, Sherlock. I need to see him, urgently,” His actions are stopped by Sherlock's hands, pushing him back to the set of pillows gathered on his back.

“I know very well you overheard all if not, part of the conversation with your Doctor. You're in no condition to walk on your own, but if you crave to see Lestrade, I'll take you to him.” The Detective abandoned the room for a brief moment, coming back with a wheelchair.

The groan that came out of Mycroft's mouth made Sherlock giggle like a little child. “Needs must, dear. Now let me help you–”

After long minutes of maneuvering Mycroft in the very uncomfortable chair, both brothers departed to their favourite DCI’s hospital room. Taking the lift 2 floors up, entering a various number of rooms, finding Gregory's not long after.

As they entered, the first thing Mycroft noticed was the unpleasant bruises on his beloved’s magnificent face, both eyes black and a large bruise painting the bridge of his nose. His lip was split, and there was more, so much more that Mycroft could not even find the words to define such a ghoulish picture.

The moment he was parked next to him, Mycroft didn't lose more time to cradle Gregory's usually warm hand between his, drawing them up to his lips and kissing Gregory's knuckles softly.

Sherlock's hand laid for the last time on Mycroft's shoulder, retiring from the room, giving his brother and Lestrade's time on their own.

Once he was sure they were alone, Mycroft permitted the tears to fall again, gripping his partner's hand as his name came out of his mouth in heart-wrenching sobs, sanity long forgot.

“I’m sorry, Gregory, I'm so, so sorry,” The elder Holmes whined, forehead pressed to the space beside Greg's forearm. “Forgive me for not noticing before this disastrous event how much you mean to me.”

The government official well knew these words would never be repeated, not even if Gregory still decided to stay by his side on behalf of everything. That's why, taking advantage Gregory indicated no signs of waking up, continued his speech.

“I’m very far from perfect, Gregory, not even closer to it, and it's something I must live with every day, comprehending that I'm standing beside the stunning and powerful human being you are,” Mycroft stopped shortly, brushing a single finger over Gregory's damaged skin. “Knowing how little I am sitting beside you on New Scotland Yard's formal dinners.”

“I continue learning as the time passes how to be more ‘normal’ as you specified once, how to conduct with other people that are not you or my troublesome brother; how to carry a baby appropriately without dropping them,” Mycroft laughed at his confession, remembering the first time he tried to pick up little Rosemund from her crib. “I wish to be the one to wash all your tears, be the one that you decide to spent the rest of your life with,”

“That’s why I need you to hear that I found a reason for me; to change who I used to be before you came to my life,” Mycroft's tears fell onto the hospital gown he was wearing, helpless, broken. “I found a reason to show a side of me you didn't know, a reason to start over new; there's no other person I would even consider to do that role, dearest.”

“A reason for all that I do, and... The reason is you, my love, it's been you all along...”

As Mycroft cried openly on Gregory's arm, he felt a delicate shift on the bed, feeling caroused fingers massaging the freckled skin on his hand.

“You went all Hoobastank on me, darlin’...” Greg's raspy and deep voice muttered, opening his eyes gradually, frowning at the sudden feeling of unbearable pain in all his anatomy.

Mycroft's eyes widened, and he got up from the wheelchair, aiming to reach the nurse button on the right side of Gregory's bed, only to be stopped gently by a set of hands.

“No need, sweetheart, I'm okay,” Lestrade smiled, reaching out his hand so Mycroft could hold it again, his request fulfilled rapidly. “Mycroft... Love, I know, I've known ever since the beginning.”

From the named’s eyes, fresh tears formed but held them still so he wouldn't show any more weakness in front of his sunshine.

“You’re the reason for me too, y’know?” Gregory said, stroking Mycroft's hair with his left hand, groaning softly as pain dominated his ribcage area. “If we are so into Hoobastank, lemme tell you there are many things I wish I didn't do,”

Mycroft froze, secured Gregory implied to their relationship. The older man saw it and gestured Mycroft to get closer, the elder Holmes obeying. Lestrade's hands grabbed Mycroft's neck, pulling him closer, close enough to feel each other's breathing.

“But you have been the best by far, you're the love of my life, my sweet, wonderful, breathtaking boyfriend.” Even though Mycroft's preference was to be referred to as Gregory's partner, he let it aside as Greg stared at him with shining brown eyes.

Seeming like all Mycroft Holmes could do was cry, Greg gathered him in his arms, careful to not disturb the break from the pain. Lestrade felt Mycroft holding onto his gown, tears, and sobs suppressed on the thin fabric. He caressed the messy red hair with affection, tracing small circles on Mycroft's back to soothe him.

They stayed that way for an eternity before Greg separated from Mycroft, holding his wet and blushing face between his strong hands.

“Marry Me,” He declared, his thumb brushing a forgotten tear under Mycroft's left eye. “Even if you think you will drive me nuts, even if you hate me for risking my life to save yours,”

Mycroft's arms wrapped around Gregory's waist, hiding in the crook of his neck. “Gregory...”

Adamant as always, Greg proceeded. “Marry me even if it's too soon, even if we have highly dangerous and psychotic enemies,” He heard Gregory's voice breaking, and silent tears fell on his neck. “Marry me so I can have the guarantee that, if the end of my life comes, it will be you the one that accompanied me through it all.”

Mycroft kissed his neck, causing Greg to chuckle a little, being heeded by a choked sob.

“I will marry you, Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft swore, setting his hand on top of Greg's heart, feeling it beating under his palm. “My reason.”

This time, Greg brought him closer to kiss him softly on the lips, his index finger tracing Mycroft's jaw. As they withdrew, Greg whispered on his fiancée’s mouth. _“My reason.”_


End file.
